


Shift

by majesticartax



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Bottom Kageyama Tobio, Brief Mention of Blood, Endgame Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Fatal Car Crash, Sexual Content and Tags to Come, Street Racing, Top Hinata Shouyou
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticartax/pseuds/majesticartax
Summary: This fic is for PremiumTable here on ao3, who has been waiting so patiently for this story for almost a year OTZ Thank you so much for your patience and support and for requesting this - I knew less than nothing about cars and street racing culture before I started planning this fic, and I've really enjoyed learning all sorts of new stuff about a world I'm STILL brand new to.I'm super excited for what's to come and I hope y'all enjoy it too <3
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 11
Kudos: 125





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PremiumTable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PremiumTable/gifts).



> This fic is for PremiumTable here on ao3, who has been waiting so patiently for this story for almost a year OTZ Thank you so much for your patience and support and for requesting this - I knew less than nothing about cars and street racing culture before I started planning this fic, and I've really enjoyed learning all sorts of new stuff about a world I'm STILL brand new to. 
> 
> I'm super excited for what's to come and I hope y'all enjoy it too <3

**Prologue**

It’s addiction.

The surge that precedes the scream. The millisecond before the engage. Synapses firing, muscles bunching. Anticipation stretching moments into miles of road ahead. The rush of it in his core as he lets his lungs expand with measured control. It spreads like the rising sun and the world is bright and clear when he hits the gas.

Asphalt screams as it seizes rubber, inked in its sweeping spoils and it thirsts for more as the engine bucks, the street grasping, clawing for the underbelly of the car as tires fling it out of reach. Fingers strum the texture of the road through the steering wheel, its leather skin melding with his own as speed distorts the world around him – light sound time feeling – a crescendo built from the roar of the engine, peaking with a throaty snarl in perfect pitch before every shift – smooth, perfect. His every cell resonates with the composition of the car: heart thrumming the cadence of the engine, blood pumping like unburnt fuel, combusting in his chest with every breath, nerves firing with the spin of gears.

Adrenaline burns its icy trails to shake his limbs, but his chassis is strong and he holds steady. The infusion is a gift and he hones it. Owns the focus it offers and bends it to his will. Senses sharpen, oxygen moves, his body responds like the fine-tuned machine that hurtles him through the streets.

It’s fight and it’s flight.

It’s not driving, it’s flying.

And for Kageyama Tobio, it’s the meaning of life.

Driving is knowing. It’s sensing. It’s feeling. When the world narrows to pure sensation and reality is turned down low, and the line between Man and Car blurs like the lights of the flickering city. Like his 1993 Nissan Skyline, Kageyama was built to race.

But he fought to be on top.

His engine rears like his heart in his throat as he nears the finish line – it’s fear re-purposed and evolved. A primal instinct that propels him forward. Because every race is a pursuit when you’re the best.

He can feel the hunger on his bumper, racers starving to overtake him for that taste of victory, lunging for him, their engines salivating, straining their necks like predators gaining on jet-black prey. But in the end the flavor fills his own mouth again, bittersweet on his tongue and twisting his gut with another win beneath his tires.

With his foot on the brake, existence and time are reborn. The world catches up. Flesh departs from steel and his lungs exhale the growl of the engine.

The finish line: where car and human disengage.

Reality seeps back in, and life again becomes a series of moments between races.

When you’re an addict, everything else is a placeholder, shuttling you from fix to fix.

Tonight he doesn’t even look back. He doesn’t need to celebrate. Tonight, he eases on the gas again, his body humming with the afterglow of a win and the gentle croon of his engine as he seeks out his last race of the night. Tonight he needs something more.

Sometimes flight just isn’t enough.

People sometimes joke that he was born with motor oil in his veins. That the magnetic draw he feels towards all things with four wheels and an engine is some kind of instinct, mapped onto his DNA like flight patterns in migratory birds. It’s not, and that’s stupid, but sometimes it’s fine to let people think he might be less than human. It gives him an edge, and it’s made him a legend enmeshed in the street racing lore of Osaka, and one best admired from a distance. It set him just far enough away from others to keep him comfortable.

He’s never been great with other people.

But his passion for cars and mechanical intuition have been with him ever since he can remember. As a child he stockpiled car ads from his parents’ magazines before he even knew how to read. He’d unearth his treasures after his parents tucked him in to marvel at the glossy pages, lay them end to end across his bed to admire the shine of the paint and the curves and angles of the cars, tracing the lines of the bodies with his fingers and studying the differences between the models. Once he could read, he started buying magazines himself with his weekly allowance. He checked out mechanic’s books at the library and printed off owners’ manuals that he came across online, poring over the technical bits with a fierce fascination, memorizing schematics and electrical diagrams. His parents were encouraging of his obsession – hoping that maybe his interests would help him make friends – gifting him model cars and auto textbooks on birthdays and special holidays, and his dad would take him to car shows on weekends to let him quietly go apeshit in his own private heaven. He wasn’t a chatty kid and he was never loud, so the adults didn’t mind him coming around to look under the hoods. He became well known by the regulars for his ability to rattle off upgrades and updates for newer generations of cars – when he was prompted, of course. That information he would offer gladly, but he knew that not everyone wanted to hear about the latest enhancements or the mechanical nuances he kept stored in his head, so he was fine keeping his knowledge to himself until directly asked.

He figured out he could disassemble and reassemble a clutch by the age of eleven – courtesy of his mechanic neighbor’s unlocked garage and a boring Sunday afternoon. The reassembly came a day later, after he’d panicked and bolted out the back door at the sound of a car in the driveway.

But his guilt got the better of him and he went to apologize the next day after school, but the mechanic’s son answered the door instead. Oikawa Tooru – a popular boy with a pretty face and two years his senior, who he’d previously seen only in passing – doubled over with laughter when Kageyama nervously muttered the reason for his visit. Still giggling, the teenager quietly closed the door behind him and led Kageyama by the elbow to the garage.

 _“Put it back together and I won’t tell,”_ Oikawa said, pointing to the small pile of parts lumped on the workbench. _“He blamed_ me _for that, you know._ ”

The older boy almost shit himself when Kageyama did it with ease. The look on the guy’s face still makes Kageyama smirk to this day.

After Oikawa sourly hustled him out the back door and slammed it in his face, Kageyama was surprised to find him waiting to walk to school with him the next morning. It turned out that the older boy was just as into cars as Kageyama.

...almost.

When Kageyama turned fifteen, Oikawa convinced his dad to give him a part-time job in his auto shop, where Oikawa worked as well. He never told his dad about The Clutch Incident, either, but Kageyama proved his worth in no time at all.

And when Oikawa turned eighteen, he taught Kageyama how to drive. Kageyama had only been sixteen at the time, but they kept their lessons quiet – or as quiet as Oikawa’s Honda Civic EF could be.

It wasn’t long after that Oikawa introduced him to the street racing scene. Kageyama knew about it, of course, what car-obsessed teenage boy doesn’t, but he needed an invite and someone to vouch for him. Again, his mechanical acuity earned him respect and he was welcomed into Oikawa’s crew with open arms, and he was always there to help tune something up under their hoods or troubleshoot or recommend some state-of-the-art mod. By the time Kageyama was legally permitted to drive at eighteen, he was already well known and half-way to his legendary status.

Kageyama often wonders how different things would be if he hadn’t fled the garage all those years ago. Maybe he and Oikawa would have connected eventually, but maybe not. Probably not. Because the only time Oikawa wasn’t surrounded by people was when he was with Kageyama. But he didn’t seem to care that Kageyama was a little strange or that he wasn’t the social butterfly he was himself. As they entered adulthood, people questioned their friendship, but they didn’t give a shit. The contrast between them drew interest and gossip, and Kageyama’s reserved nature incited rumors. He was mysterious. And he was the best at what he did. But no one seemed to know anything about him.

Because for some, street racing is nothing more than a social event. An excuse to show off their cars, hang out with friends, hit on each other, get laid. But Kageyama has never been one for any of that. He just wants to race.

Well… the getting laid part can be _okay_ , but he’d rather just get himself off. Bringing others into it takes too much energy. Energy he’d rather put into his car. Maybe if he found the right person then it wouldn’t feel like a choice. He doesn’t hate the idea of a partner, someone to effortlessly share his life and passion with. He doesn’t hate the idea of love.

He actually… kind of craves it. He just doesn’t know how to get it. And he has zero interest in getting fucked just for his name.

And, yeah, Oikawa does share his passion – and his sexual orientation, coincidentally – but, um… how can Kageyama put this nicely…

No fucking way?

Because as much as he loves Oikawa, he wants to throttle him with a fan belt more often than not.

But getting to know other people is… hard. It’s his belief that everything there is to know about a person can be gleaned from the way they drive. If anyone wanted to know him, all they’d have to do is climb in the passenger seat.

But others don’t share his philosophy. People always want to talk. And they usually want to talk about something other than cars. Like themselves. No one is ever as interesting as they think they are. Not to him, at least.

And sometimes even racing can be more talking than driving. It’s a necessary annoyance, he knows, to establish groundwork and rules before a race, discussing the limitations of the cars to keep the heats as safe and fair as possible. But once Kageyama fit himself with his reputation, his car and his name did most of the talking for him.

And after only a couple years in the scene, all he had to do was drive. He was unstoppable. Invincible. He was the best. The rush of adrenaline and victory were all he needed. And he couldn’t get enough of it.

Until the night that everything changed.

Three and a half years ago, on the eve of his twenty-first birthday, a dumb wager with a Yakuza Underboss’ little brother and a miscalculation almost took everything from him. And he quickly learned that he needed so much more than the thrill of the race.

The kid had come around talking shit, looking for someone to dethrone with an American import that screamed _Daddy’s Money_ , but that didn’t mean Kageyama had to take the bait. But Hoshiumi Korai had an ego on him and some crazy hair to match that got under Kageyama’s skin, and he had more money to put up than Kageyama could make in a year at the auto shop. It was too attractive of an offer to pass up for twenty-year-old Tobio – he’d get to crush some arrogant rich guy and make a ton of cash while doing it. But it was his own arrogance that almost cost them both their lives.

It didn't, in the end. But what it did cost him was his pride, his home, and almost four years of the life that he’d built driving the streets of Osaka.

It was a race like any other, which meant a sure win for Kageyama. They set their marks on the expressway and they sped off into the winter night, leaving Hoshiumi’s crew in the dust – Kageyama was flying solo – to weave through the sparse traffic that peppered the streets at three a.m. The guy’s silver Viper put up a decent fight, but Kageyama’s Skyline and his hubris gave him the edge.

They’d been competing for the best line through an exit ramp on a familiar stretch of road, something Kageyama had done dozens of times before, but the expectation of winning clouded his judgement, and he miscalculated the power of his opponent’s car and underestimated the skill of its pilot. It was a millisecond-worth of a mistake, and if he’d made in any other place on the highway it would have been benign, but it wasn’t. And when Hoshiumi shot forward during their turn, Kageyama clipped the silver Viper’s tail-end and the heavy car spun, flipped, and jumped the guardrail to dive to the pavement below.

He’ll never forget the sound – or rather, the complete absence of sound bookending the smash of metal on asphalt. And in the wee-hours of the morning, there was no one else on the road, Hoshiumi’s gang was still several kilometers behind them, and just like all those years ago in the Oikawa family garage, Kageyama panicked.

And he started to run. He peeled out and sped back towards the highway with his heart in his throat.

But less than ten seconds passed before he slammed on the brakes.

His memory is hazy now, but sections return in flashes. The low-humming whine of terror undercutting the scenes that replay in his head.

He remembers the gutting dread of the sight of the upended car beneath the overpass, the bite of cold gravel at his knees and the pungent smell of gas as he wrenched the crumpled door open with a squealing crunch of protest from the frame. He remembers the choked cry and the hot spread of relief through his chest when he realized Hoshiumi was still alive and the immediate horror of wondering if that was really a good thing. He remembers the crushing claustrophobia of crawling between the mangled metal and the fear in the other man’s eyes. But mostly he remembers the warmth of Hoshiumi’s trembling fingers clutching at his arms when Kageyama reached for him. How he clung to him while Kageyama worked him from the grip of the seatbelt.

And then they were on the side of the road, shaking, heavy breath fogging the chilly air, Hoshiumi gasping and crying and cradling his left arm against his chest. Kageyama remembers the tacky feel of blood on his palms, but he doesn’t remember the drag of metal against his abdomen that opened his skin.

He has a scar now.

The next few minutes were lost in a blur of screaming brakes and headlights, rough hands hauling him up and a lot of yelling. And then the world went dark.

He awoke in a bright unfamiliar room with an IV in his arm and bandages wrapping his torso. He sat up so quickly his vision swam and he was immediately washed over with memories of the crash, followed by the overwhelming sense that he was going to die.

The crash was his fault and he knew it, and so did Hoshiumi. Good drivers always know. And it wasn’t like he had much experience with organized crime, but he could bet that almost killing a family member didn’t win you any awards.

And the fact that he wasn’t in a hospital didn’t bode well for him; one glance around told him it was a hotel room, and the sunlight streaming through the curtains suggested it was mid-day. His cellphone was gone and so were his clothes. He didn’t bother to check the door. He knew it was locked, and despite the fact that he was alone in the room he suspected someone was watching him.

His suspicion was confirmed when Hoshiumi limped in a few minutes later, with a cast on his wrist and a wound dressing on the side of his face.

 _“You look worse than I do. You lost a lot of blood, but it’s nothing serious,”_ he said, settling on the edge of Kageyama’s bed. _“That’s just saline, by the way,”_ he added, pointing to the IV bag.

 _"Where am I?”_ Kageyama asked quietly to keep his voice from shaking.

Hoshiumi glanced away to the floor. _“Hadano.”_

Kageyama let that sink in and pressed a hand over his face, remembering too late the feeling of blood that coated his palms, but his hand was clean and still smelled of soap. He dropped it into his lap, regardless, and stared straight ahead. _“How long have I been out?”_

_“About twelve hours.”_

_“Where’s my car?”_

_“It’s safe. You’re safe, too.”_

Kageyama swallowed and shut his eyes. Nothing about his situation felt safe. He was hours from his home, naked except for the bedsheets, and locked in a monitored room. No. No, he definitely didn’t feel safe. He was a prisoner. He was—

" _Oh,”_ Hoshiumi said before slipping Kageyama’s phone out of his own pocket. He slid it across the bed. _“Your clothes are being washed. This was in your pants.”_

Kageyama blinked at the phone beside him in confusion; whatever look he had on his face made Hoshiumi stifle a laugh – he remembers the sound of that, and the sound of the quiet hiss of pain that followed.

 _“Call someone. Let them know you’re okay.”_ The other man stood, then, wincing. There was a softness to his voice - almost apologetic. It didn't match Kageyama's situation at all. Or did it? Kageyama still didn't know what was going on.

 _“Um…_ am _I okay?”_ Kageyama asked.

 _“Yeah…”_ Hoshiumi said, but the stall to his voice made Kageyama’s heart seize. But then he added, _“but you have to pay off your debt.”_

_“Debt?”_

Steely-green eyes flashed. _“You wrecked my car.”_

Kageyama felt a wave of sickness overtake him, but he squashed the urge to vomit and instead drooped against the headboard. _“Yeah.”_

 _“Try to rest. We can talk details later.”_ Hoshiumi reached for something on a table by the large hotel T.V. and then tossed Kageyama the remote. He caught it. _“You’re not locked in or anything, but there isn’t really anywhere to go. And… um, you probably shouldn’t try anything. Anyway, my family owns this hotel so if you need something just pick up the phone on the nightstand, or call me if you want. I put my number in your phone. Your clothes are pretty messed up so I had someone go get you some new stuff, and I’ll be back with that in a bit. I’ll bring some food too, and I should probably help you change your bandages.”_

Kageyama turned his blind gaze from the remote control in his hand and watched the way the other man hobbled toward the door as his nausea was slowly overtaken by wary confusion. _“Don’t you have people to do all that?”_

Hoshiumi turned. He blinked. And then he turned back to the door. _“Yeah.”_

 _Oh_ , Kageyama remembers thinking. And he remembers the feeling that short answer put in his chest. The stockholm syndrome set in quick.

 _“Um…_ ” Hoshiumi hesitated with his hand on the doorknob and angled a look back over his shoulder, “ _thank you,”_ he said quietly before limping out.

Alone and in a state of shock, Kageyama looked down at his phone on the bed beside him. A single text from Oikawa illuminated the dark screen:

_happy birthday tobiooooo!!! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°_

And then overwhelming emotion folded him forward; he buried his face in his hands and wept.

Kageyama shakes his head at the memory as the flickering city lights fade away in his rearview mirror. He doesn’t think about that day very often, and he passively wonders what prompted it tonight. It feels so long ago. A literal lifetime behind him.

And he’s not the same person he was.

He sighs and lets his foot fall heavily on the gas to open up his engine to the quiet dark ahead, offering himself to the road that winds from Osaka to the mountains and climbs miles and miles into the night sky.

Kageyama likes to think it exists there just for him. Just for this. For when he needs it. When flying isn’t enough and he longs for what it feels like to soar.

And he’s been needing it more these days. There’s something missing. And maybe he won’t find it on these silent mountain roads, but that doesn’t mean he won’t continue to look.

The rush from the streets is still his addiction, but here, on the mountain, he finds his peace. 

Here he feels safe – where only the stars give chase.

Three and a half years ago he was taken from his city.

One week ago he returned.


End file.
